XXVI

Actually, “decided” isn’t right; allow me to divulge the fact that I’ve been forced to stop writing for CMG for the time being on account of some shady dealings too circuitous to relate here. Seems every year I get into some sort of shit, my life’s at stake, and Scott gets pissed at me for bad press. Ha! Try living this belabored existence I call young adulthood, Scott, and we’ll see who’s worried about what.

I wanted to go out in the most tedious way possible, maybe put together a podcast of seven hours of aleatoric noise * from the Lincoln Park Zoo, or five hours of Mark snoring when he came to visit (I hope that creeps you out, Abraham), or ten tracks of different squeaks Dom’s cat makes when I punch her in the face. Instead, I compiled the least characteristic songs I could find—besides the Danielson, because he’s my bro—in the shortest amount of time I could manage. So, that’s that, some are exclusive, some aren’t. Who cares? Deal.

I would thank the labels that cooperated so politely if I were a grateful person. But I’m not, so I won’t.